Teacher's Pet
by 7percent
Summary: Pre-Movie. E/A. Arthur enrolls in school to gather information on a mark. He runs into Eames, who is working on a separate job and also under-cover. As a teacher. The forger couldn't be more amused. The situation couldn't get any more awkward for Arthur.
1. Chapter 1

This would be my first published Inception story on this site, and I'm really excited to keep working with it. I'm writing this for my good friend, as a thank you for keeping me sane when I was in a bit of a slump. You know who you are! I hope you enjoy this.

Inspiration came from absolutely nowhere. Probably from starting a fresh year of college. It should be stated now that to point out any inaccuracies pertaining to university is none of my fault. Like mentioned, I go to a college. Where we do _real_ work (I kid). This will be an Arthur/Eames story. There's no avoiding that. And most of the characterizations might be toyed with a little, as this all takes place before the canon plot of the film. Bare with me as I have a bit of fun with it.

**Title:** Teacher's Pet  
**Summary:** To better gather information on a mark, a university's president, Arthur enrolls as a student. He has a run-in with a familiar face; Eames is working as a professor in order to do some preparation for a job of his own. What becomes a simple task becomes a daunting quest to avoid resulting awkwardness and sexual tension, much to the forger's delight.  
**Rating:** T, but it will probably go higher.  
**Warnings:** Swearing, awkwardness, sexual themes, Arthur being a grouch.  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

Reviews would be appreciated!

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_"This won't be too easy, the university president is quite a difficult man to get dirt on. He's very careful."_

_Cobb had been valiantly unconcerned by their client's warning. He simply smiled and assured that this was their job; digging up secrets was what they made a living from. Ever the confident extractor. Even as this was said, Arthur had doubts in the back of his mind. It was his job to get copious amounts of information on their mark, and so far he had been given very little to go on. Like hunting for a ghost with only a name to work with. However, he didn't raise this concern during the meeting. He had gotten life stories out of less._

_"It can be done. It would be helpful if we could track his daily life. If I can get the chance to nose through the university a little, even better. " The young point man, said, clasping his hands together on the tabletop and straightening his back a little. To this point, the client had not been acknowledging him all that much, but now the aging man fixed him with a look that was just slightly surprised, with his white eyebrows quirking upwards a little. Arthur pressed on. "Do you know if the university is hiring staff right now? Cleaners? Librarians?"_

_"Are you even old enough to gain employment?" There was dry amusement in the man's voice. As Arthur's expression soured, he felt Dom's elbow nudge his ribs gently under the table._

_"What about transfer students?" the extractor suggested, trying to press the discussion forward before tempers even became a factor. That was not a terrible idea, but Arthur gave him a sideways glance, his hard eyes already smoldering with a resounding 'NO'. The client leaned back in his chair a little, fingertips tapping the wood table as he thought._

_"I'd be willing to front a semester's tuition and get the kid into a program. Classes only started a couple weeks ago."_

_Arthur, his proverbial feathers ruffled, looked between Cobb and their new employer with a look of indignation and annoyance._

_"You're not serious." he hissed._

_But they were._

Arthur had dropped out of university in his second year. And while Mal had discouraged his decision to abandon education to pursue his newfound talents as a point man, the decision had been a well thought-out one. He was not a 'higher education' type of man. Intelligence did not always mean having a piece of paper saying you wasted four years of your life drinking, eating crap food and writing papers on subjects that had absolutely zero application to the real world.

When he had met Dom in his freshman year, his potential had been spotted and put to the test. From his first experience in the dream, he was hooked. Sociology and literature couldn't hope to be half as fascinating as the world that had been opened up to him. So, leaving behind his scholarships and carefree school life, he eventually took the dive into his new career and never looked back. That was almost four years ago – by now he would have graduated and landed himself some soul-sucking government job. With all of this in consideration, he was not keen on returning to university posing as a student. Chances were, it would only remind him of why he left so eagerly.

As they arrived in Toronto for the job and settled into a pair of hotel rooms (provided at no expense by the client), Arthur was growing increasingly aware of how he was not going to be involved in a lot of the planning at first. Mal and Dom would handle the building of the dream and most of the preparation; it was simply his job to dig up everything he could on the university president. This was discouraging, as he liked being there for every step of the process. Dom had half-jokingly commented that it was a wonder that an endlessly hungry mind like this had not thrived in college. It only made Arthur skulk away in a huff.

He had been given an alias and the schedule of a first semester student. He was Mason Cooper, a student registering last-minute and taking whatever courses he could still get into. He didn't even look at the timetable or the classes; chances were he would be scarce for most of them, anyway.

His incredible distaste for the arrangement must have been obvious, because Mal took the effort to drive him to the downtown campus just to make sure the young man didn't hurl himself into traffic just to avoid going. Much like a mother sending her child off to kindergarten, she wished him luck, have him a playful and embarrassing kiss on the cheek, and sent him off. Arthur just knew that she would be an endless source of social humiliation for her children when they reached their teenage years. Wiping at his cheek and wrinkling his nose, he climbed out of the car and watched her drive off. Standing at the curb with a laptop bag over his shoulder and a crumpled class schedule in his hand, he sighed in defeat and turned to look at the building. Students were everywhere; reading, talking, making friends, and in some cases, looking severely hung over for a Monday morning.

It brought back memories, alright. Maybe he should start this school year like he used to - with a stiff drink or six.

As his day progressed, the idea sounded better and better. The campus was massive and crowded. And every staff member he stopped to ask for help in finding a room looked like he had just ruined their day by existing. He had been told to attend at least some classes to maintain the appearance of a student, but the three he had today all bored him to tears. And half of the students, freshmen straight out of high school, made him want to claw his own face off in frustration. Apparently any ignorant, vacant teenager could apply for higher education these days. Honestly. He would rather be doing his job than enduring an endless string of idiot questions and comments.

Just to make things worse, his phone went off in the middle of the last lecture, earning him a stern request to leave. Equally flustered and relieved, he did just that. It was Dom calling.

"You know I have a class right now." He snarled into the phone as he answered it in the corridor. There was an amused laugh on the other line.

"Put your phone on silent, then. See? Valuable life lesson."

"You called just to embarrass me, didn't you?"

"That, and to make sure you weren't drinking yourself to death at the bar."

"It's a good time to start." Arthur then promptly hung up and stalked off out of the building. He was in an absolutely miserable mood by now, and just wanted to do something productive before he returned to the hotel to sulk for the rest of the evening. On a campus map provided by the moderately kind lady at the bookstore, he located the school offices and headed in that direction.

One thing he had not missed about university; it was a hike to get from one side of the grounds to the other. After ten minutes, he was only halfway there. Arthur decided to take a breather to sit down and calm himself somewhat. It wouldn't all be miserable like this, he told himself. And it was only for a few weeks. The point man took a deep breath as he sat down on a bench located next to one of the athletic fields, and tried to smooth down his hair. Some strands had broken free from the excessive amount of gel that he had put in it that morning, as he had been running around trying to get his bearings. Arthur dropped his bag on the ground and rubbed at his tired face.

He could do this. It was university, not the military or something equally demanding. He had done this before – for two years – and survived just fine. Then again, at that time he was young and stupid. He had booze. And a few friends. And a sincere, misguided interest in what he was studying. No, no, he could still do this. He just had to focus on his real task.

"I know that aura of pretentious misery, anywhere."

The statement, spoken in a teasing, affectionate, and alarmingly familiar voice, gave Arthur just a start that he was on his feet in an instant. He spun on his heel to see the newcomer, who was leaning his hip on the back of the bench and wearing the most infuriating grin. He stammered something incoherent, trying to shoehorn shock and aggravation into the same exclamation and failing to say anything at all. He got a chuckled response for his efforts.

"Nice to see you too, darling."


	2. Chapter 2

Second chapter, finally getting things rolling. Reviews and critique would be much appreciated!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing except my own lame imagination.

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Arthur tried to sputter out some biting comment, something even remotely eloquent and respectable, but failed. He just couldn't uncross the jumbled wires in his head fast enough. All he could manage was the most obvious and predictable words once might say in such a situation.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, as if affronted by the very presence before him. Eames' grin only seemed to widen. The man straightened up and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans all too casually.

"I work here." the reply was nonchalant and friendly, but held an annoying 'you didn't know?' tone. Arthur suddenly felt a nostalgic need to punch the forger in the jaw. "What about you? I'd expect you to be a Harvard kid. Oxford, even." There was some genuine surprise in Eames' voice as he said this. Finally a little less flustered, Arthur managed a composed glare. The other man looked even more pleased.

"Seriously. Why are you here?" he stressed. No, he wasn't keen on seeing this man. Not right now. Not after the job they did together and the resulting months of turmoil. He thought he was done with the forger, but here he was, looking infuriatingly in place somewhere he should not be. Why the hell was he carrying a messenger bag? It looked stuffed with papers. And a blazer? A very true-to-Eames ugly brown piece, but a blazer nonetheless. Still, he looked just how the point man remembered.

Eames chuckled and pulled a card out of his pocket before handing it over to Arthur. The point man read it over, and was again beyond words. It read, in plain black;

_Prof. Oliver MacKinnon, PhD_  
_University of Toronto_  
_Faculty of Arts and Science_

"What the hell, Eames?" Arthur demanded, trapped somewhere between shocked and impressed by what great lengths the other could go to. He looked to the older man, who grinned again. He would give anything to slap that look off of his face.

"You look like you've had a bad day. The pub on campus fires up the taps at four, if you want to join me." When Arthur fixed him with a displeased stare, Eames raised his hands in surrender and let his grin melt into a completely innocent and hopeful smile. "Just an offer. I don't have any expectations. Besides, you might get more out of me once I've downed a pint."

There was a moment of hesitance in Arthur. God, if Mal know that this man was in the same country, she would hunt him down like a fox. Dom would be pretty unimpressed, too. But, as he looked up from the business card at the man it belonged to, he wavered in body and in reason. Drama notwithstanding, he missed Eames. Nothing else in life felt quite as challenging as it did before he had met the forger. He missed being kept on his toes. Slumping his shoulders, he nodded.

By the time they reached the pub, Arthur was smiling. It was that sort of reluctant smirk that very few could get out of him after a horrible day. But there it was, and all it took was Eames' stupid anecdote about how he became a widely popular professor in the first week by out-drinking most of his students. It was just so easy to believe, because, after all, it was Eames. When they sat down at a far table, drinks in hand, the forger looked even more like the man Arthur used to know. Relaxed and irritatingly amused by everything.

"So what are you doing here, darling?" The question was raised quickly, yet quite casually. Arthur shifted in his seat, not too keen about disclosing details on a job with someone who had nothing to do with it.

"Finishing my degree."

"And the real reason?" Eames smiled into his glass before taking a hefty sip of beer. He seemed to beam under the dirty look that was fired his way.

"Work." Arthur finally replied, his tone suggesting that he wanted to keep it vague. "Same with you?"

"Of course. Would you think for a second that I actually had a PhD?" As this was said, Eames' voice was smartly quieted a little. Yet, he was no less thrilled with himself. "I do teach classes right now, though. It's surprisingly easy to bullshit your way through teaching philosophy to the naïve youth."

"How is that surprising? It's philosophy. A discipline founded entirely on bullshit." Arthur said with a snort, idly fidgeting with the glass of vodka tonic in front of him. His heartbeat was throbbing in his ears, and he began avoiding Eames' eyes a little. "What class do you teach?"

"I instruct two of them. Human Nature, and Philosophy of Human Sexuality."

Arthur almost choked on his drink mid-sip as Eames stated the latter class. "Not surprising, either." he coughed, managing a smile. "Are you turning predictable on me, Mr. Eames?"

"Not in the least. If you'd like a private lesson, I'd happily prove that to be completely false."

Okay. Arthur should just put down his drink before he choked to death on alcohol. As always, Eames hadn't missed a beat, or the chance to see the point man utterly flustered. At the same time, the comment (and shamelessly suggestive tone) unnerved him a little. He wasn't sure if he was ready to go toe-to-toe with the forger right now, when it came to flinging innuendos around. He sighed to buy a second or two and regain his composure. "Eames-"

"Listen," He was cut off before he could start awkwardly rambling. Thank God. "It's okay. I feel bad about… last time." Eames sounded, strangely enough, uneasy as he tried to explain himself. "I didn't mean any harm, and I know you didn't either. It was just supposed to be fun and all that."

"And it was," Arthur replied, voice almost too quiet to be heard. He avoided the other's gaze again and forced an awkward smile. "I'm sorry it had to end on such an awful note. And I don't blame you."

A tense silence settled over them, during which Eames shifted in his chair and clutched the pint before him with both hands. His knuckles were white. "You still work with the Cobbs?"

"They're all I work with, still." Another silence, which Arthur scrambled to fill. "Mal got over it, so don't worry. She knows she overreacted."

"Overreacted?" Thankfully, Eames sounded a little amused. "She broke my nose when she found out."

The younger man winced just slightly. It was not a fond memory, that explosive argument. Mal, in all her Mother Bear glory, had not taken the realization of their brief affair well. The last time he saw Eames, the forger had a bloody nose and was swearing a blue streak. He was gone the next day, and it was just a miracle that they had finished the job before all that happened.

"I'm sorry."

"Do you think I would have bothered talking to you if I blamed you for that?" These words reassured Arthur a little, as did Eames' smile. "And, judging by the fact that you didn't kill me on sight, we're okay?"

Arthur looked away again, losing a battle against his own smile. He must be the biggest idiot in the world, sitting here and drinking with Eames when an hour ago he was living with the fact that he would never see the forger again. It was, he hated to admit, a nice surprise. One that he didn't want to waste. Maybe Mal didn't have to know. "We're okay." he replied after a moment.

"Okay enough for you to tell me what kind of job you're rooting up information for?" Eames' voice was hopeful and just a little bit playful, and he leaned forward a little. Arthur rolled his eyes before looking back to the other man.

"You should know better," he uttered dryly. Eames was unfazed.

"I should, but here we are." Another one of those irritating grins. "I love it when you look at me like that."

A little taken back, Arthur straightened shoulders. "Like what?"

"Like you want to deck me and then shag my brains out. I missed that look."

Arthur was on his feet in an instant, a thin smile on his face. The game, most certainly, had resumed from last time. And he had to get out before he got caught up in the thrill of it. He had work to do, after all, and couldn't get distracted so soon. He pulled his coat on and picked up his bag. "Have a good evening, professor." he said in parting, the slightest tease in his tone. "I've got your number if I need anything."

Eames leaned back in his chair, looking mildly disappointed but not letting the playful gleam in his eyes fade. He appeared to watch Arthur closely, in a way that gave the point man familiar chills under his skin. "I'll see you in class, Mr. Cooper." he replied shrewdly as the other made his retreat.

Arthur froze in his tracks for a split second and looked over his shoulder with narrowed, questioning eyes. However, Eames was a brick wall. A smug, charming brick wall. He forced himself to keep walking, but as soon as he was out of the building, Arthur dug through his pockets desperately. Mild panic swelled in his chest as he smoothed out his crumpled class schedule on his thigh and read it over.

_Wednesday – 12:10 – 1:00_  
_Human Nature - Lecture_  
_Prof. MacKinnon_

Fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

Third chapter! Just a short one, this time. I wanted to thank everyone who reviewed and put this story on their favourites! It's great to know that people are enjoying the story so far!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Dom was in the middle of tinkering with the PASIV device when Arthur returned to the hotel. When he let the point man into the room, he was smiling like he was still eternally amused by the whole notion of sending him to school. However, the pale, unnerved appearance of the younger man had wiped all of that away in an instant. Arthur was not very easily moved; his two main expressions were neutral and annoyed. So it was never taken lightly when the young man looked even the slightest bit shaken.

"Was your day that bad?" This was asked with a bit of concern as the point man was let inside. Silence followed, as Arthur stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, where pieces of the device were scattered, waiting to be cleaned and reassembled. Dark eyes clanging around the room, Arthur fidgeted with the strap of his bag, which now lay at his feet.

"Is Mal here?" he asked before looking to Cobb, who was returning to his work yet still watching him carefully. Despite his best efforts, his voice was low and almost nervous. His shoulders relaxed a little as the other shook his head.

"She just went out to get dinner. Why?"

The whole bus ride home, Arthur had tried to decide how he would deal with the information that had been set before him. He ran through the possibilities of telling the others, how he would word the news, and even the notion of just ignoring the problem altogether. But that was not how he did things. He never just hoped things would blow over. Idly playing with the bag's strap, still, Arthur thought through his next words carefully.

"You didn't hire anyone else, did you?" he asked, forcing himself to avoid averting his gaze from Cobb. Arthur didn't want to let his nerves show through. Not right now. A quizzical glance was thrown his way, as Dom carefully replaced the sedative canisters.

"It's just us and Mal, like usual." came the reply, heavy with a million questions although none followed. Dom understood Arthur, and knew that he didn't react to pressure. Everything he had to say would come out in time. It was a relief to not be barraged with questions. The young point man sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Then you're not going to like this." Arthur admitted dryly. Ever calm, the older man waited with a watchful, curious eye as he worked on the PASIV. It took a moment for the words to make it up to Arthur's drying mouth. "I ran into someone today. Somebody we've worked with before. And he's got some business with the school or someone in it."

This, understandably, concerned Cobb. He focused all of his attention on Arthur, now, and set the piece in his hand down on the bed. Something was clicking in his head, bringing the possibilities forward, none of which could bode well for the job. "And who would that be?" he asked, the low tone in his voice suggesting that he expected the worst. Arthur was now wringing his hands together slowly as he looked away, suddenly greatly interested in the disassembled PASIV.

"Eames. He's working there has a teacher, but he's doing something else." It took a moment for the truth to push its way out. In the corner of his vision, he could see Dom's expression turn nearly grim. Arthur heaved a sigh and ran his hands over his face briefly. "I don't know what he's doing. But he was greatly interested in my own business, there." Something in his tone pleaded slightly, imploring Cobb to not let this anger him. Luckily, his colleague was a reasonable man. His wife, however, would be throwing a fit by now. After last time, it was a wonder that Eames even lived to make another appearance in their lives.

"Arthur-"

"I tried to find out, but he's impossible to read." He cut the other man off suddenly, unable to hide the defensiveness that crept up on him. "Whether it has to do with us or not, I have no idea."

"I'm hardly worried about that." Cobb's voice was low and stiff, and Arthur felt his jaw clench at the implication. He looked up at the other, to see him standing with arms crossed and watching. They stared each other down for a moment, and Arthur suddenly felt like a berated child. Not the best feeling in the world.

"Not you, too." The point man was the first to break, surprisingly enough. Maybe the bad day had left his willpower somewhat brittle. He wrinkled his nose and looked away. But the other's eyes still bore into him.

"Listen." Dom sighed, moving to sit beside his friend on the edge of the bed. "I know you're a grown man, Arthur. But I'm allowed to be concerned, after how that job ended." The reasonable tone in his voice was a little calming, and Arthur felt like he couldn't be angry.

"He wasn't the one throwing punches." No, he couldn't be angry. He could, however, be frigid. He heard the other take another deep breath. "I'm not going to let this distract me. I just… You needed to know that we had other people lurking around the campus. In case it works against us." He pressed, staring at the floor.

"I trust you, Arthur. But if he is working against is, he might try to use your past relat-"

"Don't call it that."

Dom pinched the bridge of his nose and was quiet for a few seconds. "Fine - your _history_ – as a means of making you lose sight of your goal." He was obviously trying very hard to be patient and reasonable. Arthur appreciated it. They sat in silence for a moment, during which Arthur picked at his already spotless fingernails.

"Please don't tell Mal." He finally said quietly. It was the last thing he needed. He had lied when he assured Eames that Mrs. Cobb no longer cared about that little incident. She would be livid if she knew that the forger was there, and had the gall to approach Arthur and invite him out for drinks. Even after having two kids, Arthur was still very much her 'baby'. Thankfully, Dom understood her overprotective nature as a bit of a thorn in the young man's side. Arthur felt a hand pat him on the back and then squeeze his shoulder.

"I won't. Just please be careful, because I don't think we can hide a lot from her." He said, offering a reassuring smile. "We'll be fine. We've worked against good people before."

But Eames wasn't just good. He was the best at what he did, and made a living out of deceiving others. Arthur was a little more at ease after getting most of the weight off his chest, but he was still very worried. He could only hope that this was a coincidence; that he would have minimal contact with the forger and their jobs would have nothing to do with each other. Because he wasn't sure if he could deal with that mess again. The talk came to a halt as Mal flitted through the door was bags of take-out in her arms, grinning to the two men in her life with all the adoration in the world.

"You don't look like you had a good day, Arthur." she almost cooed as she stepped over and handed him one of the bags, her hand brushing over his pale cheek. "Eat. And tell me all about it."

He didn't. He hated to lie to Mal, but he couldn't give her the whole story. And Dom obviously had a similar conflict as Arthur spoke about his stressful day, consciously leaving out the chance encounter. But it was for the best; it was for the sake of the job.


	4. Chapter 4

Words can't express how much fun I had with this chapter. Lots of experimentation, and just having fun with a painfully charismatic Eames. Any feedback on how I did with playing with characterizations could be appreciated!

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

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Time dragged. Classes bored him like no tomorrow. Half the school's population was young and obnoxious and intoxicated around the clock. Arthur could only console himself in a successful raiding of the financial office, which offered him a few files on recent hiring in the institution. Maybe it would provide a bit of information on one of the university's newest 'professors'.

This was what he took pride in; digging and prying. He didn't usually break into places to steal tangible copies of information, but when he did it was such a thrill. Nothing injected adrenaline into him like narrowly avoiding being caught somewhere he shouldn't be. Maybe it was an entire childhood of being well-behaved that gave him such a secret rebellion streak. Either way, the excursion made his Tuesday a little less aggravating, and put him in a good mood.

However, much to his annoyance, information on one Oliver Mackinnon was all airtight forgery. Contact numbers, when tested, rang through to legitimate answering machines. His PhD from Yale – fucking Yale – was actually in several databases. Driver's licenses, health cards, passports, and everything else were solid. All under Canadian citizenship. Arthur was beginning to wonder if Eames killed some poor bastard and stole his life. Despite the forger's admitted dislike for actually committing murder outside of a dream, it felt entirely plausible.

He never realized, or moreso admitted to himself, how much he looked forward to Wednesday. He dreaded and waited anxiously for it, not knowing what to expect and letting that fact infect him. Because Arthur liked being kept on his toes, and Eames never failed to make that happen. This anticipation was almost distracting, as his quest to download school budget files that morning had almost been a disastrous one. His odd, conflicted daydreaming almost got him caught, but hiding under a desk saved his skin when security had popped in, noticing the computer's light in the absent financial manager's dark office. In the end, he had a flash drive full of information to be looked over later. Again, he felt exhilarated. Not even that distracting, smug tramp could stop him.

When the massive lecture hall filled up, the point man deliberately found a spot in the middle. It was far back enough to hopefully avoid being recognized, but he was not lingering in the back with students who looked like they were severely hung over or reeked of questionable-smelling smoke.

There was no sign of the 'professor', with five minutes to go until class. The room was packed. Students who looked like they usually wouldn't be awake before 2pm were in attendance. Some were even wearing sleep pants, to Arthur's mild disgust. Christ, some still looked half asleep. People were paying thousands a semester for this? Well, they were paying a world-class criminal to teach them philosophy. Higher education was the most expensive form of robbery and self-destruction, it seemed.

By 12:10, the lecture hall was settled into something resembling order. Students were simply murmuring and waiting, which was a sight to behold. Not one rowdy kid, and hardly any laptops open to Facebook. They were actually waiting for the lecture to begin. For a first semester class, this was almost alarming. Arthur had seen nothing but immaturity until now. He couldn't help but feel that it was ironic. They probably had the most immature instructor to ever forge a teaching degree.

The doors at the stage of the lecture hall opened at 12:13 (late as usual), and there was a hush. Arthur bit his lip as he watched Eames, wearing that same offensive brown blazer from the other day, along with some half-wrinkled black shirt underneath. His briefcase was tossed onto the table haphazardly, and he didn't walk up to the podium. Rather, Eames stepped up beside it and leaned against the side, observing his class over round glasses that Arthur was sure he didn't even need. He seemed to look over his pupils, beaming with pride.

"I'm amazed to see half of you here, twelve hours after pub night." He said, tugging the microphone out of its stand on the podium. Arthur heard a few cheers from the back, but other than that there was minimal disturbance. "Who was it who shotgunned three beers in a row? Oh yes, I saw it. Was it _you_, Jackson?" There was a snigger in Eames' voice as he called out one of the students, a young man waving his arm weakly, yet with pride. "Bloody good job on that. Make it to four without hurling on the floor and I'll bump your mark up an extra percent."

A laugh moved through the lecture hall, but Arthur could only sit in astonishment. They loved him. They were already hooked on listening to him – a near-alcoholic 'professor' who rewarded their unhealthy habits. Arthur didn't even pay for this semester, and he felt cheated. He just silently watched, trying to hide how appalled he was. Eames, having freed the microphone, moved away from the podium and towards the massive blackboard. He talked as he did so.

"I've gotten a few emails about my lack of PowerPoint presentations, and how I don't offer much in terms of notes." It was almost alarming how he seemed so comfortable, like he had been teaching for years. His voice carried all the necessary tones; confidence, authority and genuine interest. He grabbed a piece of chalk and turned back to the rows of seats, but didn't write anything. "I want to repeat – and stress – that Human Nature isn't something you can put into bullet points and charts. The complexity of the mind, as explained by me, is beyond such borders. If you want the biochemical functions behind what makes humans tick, Dr. Woodall has his Intro to Psychology lecture in this same hall on Mondays. But here, we don't focus on the 'how'. We ask 'why', and, more importantly, 'what the hell is with us?'."

Another hushed round of laughter. Arthur felt sparks crackle under his skin, and shifted in his seat a little. Eames seemed to wait a beat before going on. "This isn't a lecture. I could rant and rave for an hour, pretending one man knows everything about the mind. But that would make me a damned crooked thief, to take your money for that."

Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek.

"This is a _conversation_." Eames stressed the last word, leaning his head forward. God, they were captivated. Hundreds of young minds hooked by a lure gleaming with wit and charisma. "So, don't take notes on paper or Word documents. Let it ignite your minds, like education should." There was a wide smile on his face, then, and Arthur almost felt the girl sitting next to him almost melt into her seat. The 'professor' moved on, then, chalk still in hand as he crossed the stage to reach the front. Without warning, he hurled the chalk at an unsuspecting student in the front row, who yelped and barely managed to catch it.

"What just saved this man's face?" Eames then asked, pointing at the stunned youth and looking across the momentarily silent hall. A tentative hand was raised, which he acknowledged with a wave.

"Reflexes?" the young woman answered, sounding more inquisitive than anything.

"Close." Eames then turned on heel and migrated towards center stage. "I threw a stick of chalk at him with all the force a former cricket player could muster. Too fast for his conscious mind to register. Instinct kicked in, bringing his hand up before he even realized what was happening – you alright by the way?" He cut himself off to regard the boy he had just practically assaulted. When the student nodded, he relaxed and grinned. "Good. I'll buy you a pint if you don't tell the dean."

Arthur was trapped somewhere between alarm and being, well, impressed. Eames really was a man of theatrics, even in the most subtle of manners. At this point, he realized he had been just as hooked, his eyes and ears soaking in everything with utmost attention. It was like a spell. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

"Instinct," Eames continued, gesturing with his now empty hand as he spoke. He seemed to pacing the stage, the meandering so slow that one could fail to notice. "Is something we all possess. It is a fundamental part of the human mind, no matter how hard we've tried to repress it. And I'm not going into the Ego, the Id, and all that bollocks. Freud can go suck a cigar, for all I care. We're talking about the lowest, most subtle, yet strongest part of the human mind. It controls us. We can't control it. What is it?"

Eames raked the crowd with his eyes, bypassing all the raised hands. Arthur froze as he felt those prying eyes focused right on him. "You, in the dashing sweater vest." He called out, pointing right at Arthur. The point man, of course, knew the answer. But it was a second before his mouth caught up with his mind.

"The subconscious." he answered. Eames grinned again, looking rather pleased. For some reason, Arthur felt that he was being personally tested, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was a far cry from the looks he was used to from Eames – the ones that just screamed that he was being mentally undressed. No, this tore right into his being, like Eames was trying to strip down his defenses rather than his clothing. Much to his chagrin, it was working.

"Exactly. The subconscious is, in essence, who we are." Eames said, pulling off his glasses and holding them folded in his hand. "No social expectations, no inhibitions, and certainly no distracting rubbish thoughts. It's just you, pure and raw. If you can delve into a person's subconscious, you will find things you never thought existed in that person's mind. Things the subject never knew about themselves."

The lesson went on for what felt like hours. Yet, it was not the sort of dragging, painful lecture that seemed uniform in this school. No, Eames talked, pulled people into conversation, and let ideas bounce around the room until they formed solid theories. He called on people who would otherwise never want to speak in class, and actually encouraged them to share their thoughts. Watching this, Arthur's curiosity was certainly peaked. What was Eames playing at? All of this talk about the subconscious was a little hard to miss. He was either messing with the point man, or simply lecturing on what little he actually knew. People like them knew the subconscious; they toyed with it on a regular basis. Several times, Eames' eyes fell on him, and it seemed that his increased attention was noticed.

"Emotion and behavior stem from the subconscious. A traumatic event can seep into a person's inner mind and stick there, leaving them with incurable fears and anxieties. The subconscious runs the show. The conscious mind is simply the actor." Eames paused his speaking for a moment, tapping his foot and twirling his glasses in his hand absently. "For next week, I want you to write a case study. Find me a person – someone you know, someone you stumble home with from the bar, or a stranger you talk to on the bus – and write a blurb on them. Find out some deeply ingrained part of their being, and reflect on the conscious and subconscious aspects of it. What caused it, how it affects them, and that. A couple hundred words will do. Yes-" he turned to acknowledge a student with a raised hand.

"Can you give us an example?" she asked in the midst of scribbling down the assignment.

"Of course." Eames turned and resumed his subtle pacing, lightly tapping the frame of his glasses against his chin in thought. "Alright. As a child, I was attacked by a couple of dogs. Ill-trained, big ol' brutes that shredded my leg and sent me to the surgery for countless stitches." Animated as always, Eames spun to face the rows of students with an arm outstretched. "And the natural mental consequence would be – tell me, Dashing Sweater Vest!" He pointed to Arthur again, who tried not to fume at the new nickname (it was worse than 'darling' and any of the other infuriating endearments).

"A fear of dogs." He answered, only barely hiding his annoyance. Eames gave a steep nod and an approving smile.

"A _bloody strong_ fear of dogs, yes. On the conscious level, I'm perfectly aware that the yappy little Pomeranian at my feet couldn't do a lick of harm. Hell, I could probably send it a good twenty meters across the way with a good kick! But my subconscious, scarred like the skin and muscle tissues, might forever see a canine as a threat. I might come to terms with the incident, but never own a dog, because deep down I will always fear man's best friend." He gazed across the crowd for confusion, and when he saw none, he shrugged. "Simple. All I need to know is that you understand the distinction." He waved his hand in jesting dismissal. "That's all for today. Remember my office hours, and that they're complete bullshit. Email me to set up an appointment, or hunt me down in the pub." As students shuffled to their feet, going back to murmuring with a little extra excitement, their professor shut off the microphone and set it down before grabbing his briefcase.

Moving against the crowd, Arthur stood and headed down the stairs towards the stage. It was like swimming upstream. He only barely caught up to Eames as he was leaving, although probably perfectly aware that the point man was trying to catch him. He did, however, hold the door open for Arthur as he left to lecture hall.

"You think you're _hilarious_, don't you?" he hissed quietly as they moved side-by-side through the busy corridor. Eames grinned at him, pocketing his glasses.

"I meant what I said. It really is a dashing vest, darling."

"Do you know how easily someone in our field could have caught on to that?" Arthur pressed on, ignoring the comment. He was going to burn this vest the second he got back to the hotel. "It's reckless to go around telling people details about this sort of thing. Especially about the power of the subconscious." Much to his frustration, Eames was unfazed.

"The subconscious is the focus of many academic disciplines. We're not the only people to tinker with the human mind." He looked at Arthur, actually wearing a somewhat serious expression under that unyielding smile. "You're better off berating me for throwing chalk at my students."

"Or drinking with them." Arthur huffed.

"Or planning on shagging one of them." The forger's low, purred voice caught Arthur off guard, to the point where he forgot the placement of his own feet and stumbled. Eames laughed as Arthur regained his footing mid-stride and struggled to keep up.

"What makes you think that'll happen?" the point man demanded quietly as they walked, almost instantly flustered by the comment. No, he wasn't going to sleep with Eames. Not again. Not after last time. And certainly not now, if the other man was expecting it.

"Please, love, you were undressing me with your eyes the whole lecture."

"If by that you mean I think your blazer if hideous, then yes."

"And the shirt?" Eames was having an infuriatingly easy time having this conversation while walking through a crowded university. Arthur wanted to punch him, but all the blood in his body was currently in his face and his ears and he couldn't see straight.

"You need to iron it." He muttered this almost hatefully. It was like Eames had planned this all out. "But that doesn't mean a damn thing. It's not happening."

"Not unless you want it to, no." the other man laughed quietly, sounding far too confident in the possibility that Arthur did want it to happen. In a more open and less crowded area of the corridor, the forger stopped. Arthur sneered at him and decided to keep moving, but a playful tug on the strap of his tug pulled him back with an embarrassing lack of grace. He looked to Eames with an even darker look, but it faded quickly. That smugness had shifted into something a little more tolerable. A hand resting on Arthur's bag, as if afraid he might run off, he sighed.

"I'm glad you showed up." Eames' tone was actually sincere, and friendly rather than obnoxiously affectionate. "I was – I guess – afraid you would avoid me like the bloody plague." When Arthur looked stunned, the forger gave an almost sheepish smile. "Don't think too much about it. I just missed you, is all." He then released Arthur's bag to let him go. The younger man eyed him cautiously, wondering why his face still felt so damn hot and why the edges of his vision were blurred.

"You're toying with me." His accusation lacked sting, as his voice was quiet. "You're working against us. And you just want to fuck with me."

"Darling," Eames chuckled softly, affection in his eyes. "Even if I am, that doesn't change the fact that I'm happy to see you again. I don't want to 'fuck with you', as you so eloquently put it." A pause, and a smirk. "Though, take away one word, and you'll be a little more accurate."

Oh, how delightful it would be to see Eames sprawled out and bleeding on the freshly polished tile floor.

"You're impossible." Arthur hissed. "What are you doing here, Eames? Just be out with it."

Shaking his head with smile that was somewhere between sad and knowing, the forger turned and walked off. He did, however, spare a moment to ruffle Arthur's hair in passing. The point man fumed, sputtered some awful curse after him, and stalked off in the opposite direction. He was royally flustered, and frustrated beyond belief. By the time he reached the hotel, however, he managed to calm himself. No, there was no point in letting the others see him so hung up over nothing. It was just Eames. Insufferable should be his middle name.

As he sorted through his bag, Arthur hit a terrifying and gut-twisting realization. The flash drive with all of his hard-earned information was gone. The zipped-up outer pocket it had been kept in was completely empty. A wave of blind rage swept through Arthur, and he swore and threw his bag onto the floor. _Son of a bitch_.


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you to everyone for the positive reviews so far! I'm so happy to hear that people are enjoying the story, and I'll try very hard to keep it updating at this speed.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

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Arthur had to check about three times to make sure the hallway was deserted before edging towards the door. Through the blinds, he peered into the dark office and tried to detect movement. 'Professor Mackinnon' was in the middle of a two-hour seminar, but he didn't trust that timetable for a minute. Like hell he would freely conform to any schedule that he didn't make himself. Arthur just had to work with the knowledge that Eames could pop up at any moment, and dedicate himself to working as quickly as possible.

It took about half a minute of fiddling with a pick for him to crack the lock on the office door. Looking over his shoulder again, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him. The office was rather small, which seemed usual for new professors, but somehow its owner kept the restricted space neat. There were some papers and coffee mugs scattered about the small desk, but otherwise it was in some semblance of order. Arthur was almost impressed. The forger was approaching adulthood, finally.

It was a simple office, with a desk against the wall, a chair, some file cabinets and a tiny closet. The desktop computer looked dusty, like it hadn't been touched once. Yet the rest of the place looked fairly well lived in. Arthur moved silently, setting his bag on the floor and beginning his thorough search. Since Eames snatched his flash drive last week, he had been determined to regain his advantage. He had to watch carefully and delve into the university database to find out the other man's actual routine during the week. Much to his frustration, the forger actually kept a fairly legitimate professor's schedule. At least he could take advantage of that. The point man began digging through cabinets and drawers, seeing no sign of his flash drive. Other information, like evidence of Eames' real employment, was scarce. He did find a scribbled note tucked under some papers.

_Charity dinner Friday night. Have to cancel. Let me know if you can make it on Sunday morning._  
_-F_

Arthur digested this vague information before setting the note back in the place it was found. He then moved on, rooting through the small closet. Under a couple of jackets and bags (unceremoniously piled on the floor, predictably), the point man found a safe. This was promising. What professor kept a safe in their office? Arthur knelt down in front of the steel box, setting his ear to the door. He had plenty of experience opening combination locks, and this was no different. He couldn't help but smile as he counted clicks and turned the knob. _Oh, Mr. Eames. You're letting your guard down._

When opening the heavy door, Arthur let out a sigh. What greeted him was exactly what he expected. The silver shell of a PASIV case was unmistakable. But when did the forger get his own device? He was known to always live light and never keep anything valuable with him, in case he had to disappear overnight. As he mulled this over, Arthur reached into the safe and felt around. His fingers closed around not one, but two flash drives, and his heart almost skipped a beat. Smiling to himself. He quickly pocketed them and closed the safe with a quiet 'click'. As he got to his feet, Arthur was immobilized by light flooding the dark office. The door had been thrown open, and he was caught deer-in-headlights style as a campus security guard stormed in.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" the man demanded, blocking the whole doorway with his large, formidable frame. Arthur stammered something incoherent, taken completely off guard and panicking as he was instantly trapped. As the guard asked again insistently and with less patience than before, Arthur tensed. A million possible lies flitted in his head, but words failed him.

"Ah, Mason!" The voice of a savior, amused yet urgent, broke into the tense air, and the next thing Arthur knew, Eames was slipping through the doorway past the guard. "Did you find it?" Genuine concern was all over his face. God bless his brilliant acting.

"Y-yes." Arthur managed with a nervous grin, pulling a memory stick out of his pocket. "In the leather jacket, like you said."

"Oh thank God." the 'professor' breathed, physically deflating with relief. He turned to the security guard with a smile. "I sent a student here to fetch something. Sorry if there was a mix-up." Despite this reassurance, the guard looked skeptical.

"Students aren't really allowed-"

"I know, I know." Eames chuckled, almost dismissing it. "Sorry. Won't happen again. Mason was just being a great help."

"It's what I do." Arthur added, his smile coming a lot more easily this time.

The guard looked between them for a moment before shaking his head and moving out of the doorway, vanishing down the hall. He clearly didn't care enough to press the issue. The moment he was fully gone, Eames' expression shifted to something between annoyance and like he was fighting a fit of giggles. It was pretty damn weird. The forger swung the door almost closed and stepped over, making Arthur tense and take a tentative step back. But he found his back against the wall.

"You owe me." Eames said, amusement overriding anger for the moment. As usual, he leaned a little too far into Arthur's personal space. The point man tensed again, but sneered.

"You stole this from me to begin with. And how did you know I was here?" Yes, he was fully willing to ignore the fact that he had broken into Eames' office to recover the stolen information, which he himself had stolen from the school. Much like a child, he held the stick behind his back in a clenched fist. Patient to a near fault, Eames held a hand out.

"Kudos to you for breaking in, pet. But I'm not making a game out of this." The only thing that cut the sudden seriousness in his voice was the smile on his face.

"Yes you are." Arthur accused, his hackles raised like a cornered feline. That damned smile widened.

"Okay, I am. But I'm winning, and you need to yield for this round."

Arthur eyed the half-open door, and the space between him and the adjacent wall. He could slip away from the other and make a run for it, if he was quick enough. And he knew for a fact that he was a little more agile than the forger when it came down to it. As if reading his mind, Eames leaned his other hand against the wall to block him even more. The space between them was uncomfortably narrow, and Arthur had to flatten his back against the wall just to get an extra inch away from the other.

"Not very appropriate teacher behavior." he breathed, suddenly very aware of the undercurrent running between them. His skin was crawling and his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. Against his better judgment, his mind was trying to take a downright filthy turn. And it was not helped when Eames threw a most predatory smirk at him. This game was getting a little too heavy.

"Well, I think we both know I'm not at much risk of getting fired." The words forced Arthur to press back harder just to avoid the shiver. It was like they had never parted; Eames was just as suggestive, shameless and alluring as always. "So, darling, if you don't mind,"

Arthur didn't want to get into this. He didn't have the willpower to play this game when he was here to work, because the line between the two goals would most definitely blur. So, with a sour look, he reluctantly lifted his hand and dropped the flash drive into Eames' waiting palm. "There."

"And the other one." The smugness in the forger's voice almost earned him a kick between the legs. Arthur attempted to maintain his innocence on the second theft, but eventually cracked under the other's gaze. With a huff, he fished the second one out of his pocket and handed it over.

"Happy?" he hissed.

"Delighted." Eames put both drives into the back pocket of his trousers and straightened up. Although he didn't step away, he gave Arthur all the space he needed to leave. "Don't look at me like that, darling. You know it's just business. If we were playing for the same team, there would be nobody I would trust more with important information."

Arthur relaxed, but didn't move. His limbs were failing him. "So you are working for the university president." His voice dripped with distaste, and perhaps even disappointment. "What can a forger possibly do for him?" Eames seemed to take this as flattery, as if assuming that Arthur's displeasure with the arrangement was a confession of his secret love for him.

"I can't tell you that." The affection in Eames' voice was getting annoying very quickly. "But I look forward to the challenge you have ahead of you. I implore you to go in as prepared as possible, if you can manage it. Though, I regret knowing I am working to ensure your failure. We made a good team, working together." A thoughtful pause, and another smirk. "Do you miss dreaming with me, love?"

Arthur was silent for a moment, as his throat instantly dried. He hated losing, and right now he was stacking up a terrible record with Eames. He needed to stop playing around. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he forced himself to relax; right down to the irritation on his face, which faded away.

"Yes." he admitted, suddenly very quiet. Eames had probably expected something completely different, because his smirk wavered and his head tilted just a little with curiosity.

"It was never boring, was it?" the forger asked, leaning his hand on the wall again. By the look in his eyes, he was obviously letting himself get reeled in.

"Never." Arthur managed a thin smile. "I don't know what was more fun; the job, or getting to shoot you in the head when you got ballsy."

"_Straightforward_, pet. I was straightforward with my affection."

"You were _insufferable_."

There was a beat. A brief moment of stillness. The agonizing tension before the break. The entirety of existence melted into an incomprehensible, meaningless mess, and all that Arthur was aware of was the slamming of his body against the wall, and the violent, desperate clash of lips. He was suddenly clawing at Eames' hair with one hand, trying to hold him close in case he dared try and pull away. He felt himself being nearly crushed between the wall and the other man, and he delighted in the heat and the pressure. They instantly fell into their old ways; the heated battle of tongues and teeth that only seemed to exist to establish power between them. Shivers raked down Arthur's spine as he pressed against Eames, holding on to him for dear life as he was sure that he could not support his own weight anymore.

There was no question that it had been far too long since the last time. Neither of them yielded in the kiss, and it was a while before they felt safe enough to ease their death grips on each other. It was almost like the first time, when they had both expected the other to try and break their neck the second that caution slipped. Finally, Arthur felt fingers trying to sneak under his shirt, and he relaxed. Hands began roaming wildly, desperate to rediscover what had once been memorized. Oh God, Eames still knew all the right places to touch, even over fabric. He was being relentlessly generous with targeting these areas, knowing that Arthur was struggling to keep silent with the office door cracked open. Cruel bastard.

Mouths moved then, beginning when Arthur had to bury his face in the crook of the other man's neck to force himself to be quiet. The grinding of their hips was just too much to bear. He tensed when Eames's mouth attacked his neck, with harsh yet wonderful flashes of lips and tongue and teeth and- _ohshit_.

He gasped, pushing his head back against the door. It had to end right now. He told the forger to stop, though it came out as an almost nonsensical "_GodEamesdon't-_".

Eames was an impossible, stubborn idiot. But he had to be credited with knowing when he actually needed to back off. As if the man under his hands and mouth was suddenly blistering hot, he jerked away. It was not as prompt and graceful as hoped, however, as they soon discovered that they had been rather intricately tangled at the limbs. When they finally pulled away, Arthur had to grab the edge of the closet door to steady himself. His legs were embarrassingly weak. They were both breathless, and he noticed that Eames was doing an excellent job at hiding his disappointment.

"You were going to mark me, you idiot." Arthur hissed, glaring at the forger. As expected, the other just gave a smile and leaned his arm against the wall to support himself. He gave an almost inaudible laugh between his panting breaths.

"Sorry. Got ahead of myself, love." he admitted, his breaths grazing Arthur's ear. "I told you I missed you."

Arthur closed his eyes as he tried to compose himself and get some blood back into the upper half of his body. The quiet moment that followed offered a twinge of déjà vu. Then again, the previous experiences he could compare this to had been a little more satisfying, to say the least. That was probably what he had missed. That pause, the merciful quiet after the hurricane, as they recovered from the explosive passion. This time, there was no afterglow. Only his body screaming in disappointment. Against his better judgment, he leaned his head against Eames'.

"I missed you, too." He hated to admit it. He really did. But it was beyond his power, now. A smile tugged at Arthur's lips, although they felt like they were swelling. "Don't you have a class right now?" He secretly delighted in the sudden tension in the other man's relaxing body, before the forger heaved a sigh.

"Told them I was going for a coffee fifteen minutes ago." Eames muttered, straightening up. Arthur opened his eyes to look at him, unable to help the amusement all over his face.

"You don't even like coffee."

"I like it when it's a euphemism for 'scandalous rendezvous in my office'." Eames shot back with a grin, bloodflow obviously having returned to his brain. Arthur tried very hard to stifle his laugh, but couldn't help himself. Oh hell, he was giddy. Goddamn Eames had reduced him to a giggling idiot all over again. Trying to hide it, he leaned forward and embraced the other again. This time it was a little more chaste. Though, much to his satisfaction, the other man had flinched as if bracing to be struck. Arthur laughed quietly into his shoulder a little bit before calming himself.

"Go back. We'll meet up again." He said, tightening his hold before releasing Eames, who looked like he was reluctant to believe that promise. The point man let himself become the smirking fool, this time. "I know where you're staying - I found it out last week."

"That doesn't shock me." Eames chuckled. He did pause, however, as if unsure if he was making a smart decision. They both knew this was probably a downright stupid plan to even be in the same room together, much less making plans to do this sort of thing. But neither of them could exercise the self-control needed to stop themselves, now. It was just a damn miracle that they weren't shagging on the desk that very moment. "Alright. Hunt me down when you're ready." He said this quietly while lifting a hand to push loose strands of Arthur's hair back into place.

Smiling, Arthur took his leave. It was a miracle that he was composed and able to walk on steady legs, because he needed to get out before his willpower cracked again. He grabbed his bag on the way out, glancing back at Eames before he moved out into the hallway. This was such a bad idea. His heart was both fluttering and slamming against his ribcage like a beast fighting for freedom. Sleeping with the enemy. The most genius, idiotic concept to ever cross his mind.

As he walked briskly out of the building, Arthur chewed on his lower lip. It was difficult to keep from laughing. He finally unclenched his fist, and let the two memory sticks roll in his palm. Poor Eames. He loved having his ass grabbed far too much to know when he was being pickpocketed. He had also forgotten that Arthur never, ever lost sight of his goals, no matter what distractions were being thrown his way.


	6. Chapter 6

I can't begin to thank you guys for the reviews and favourites! I never expected such a positive response to this silly little story. You're all awesome, and I hope you continue to enjoy my work.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

This is all still for you, Reese! Hope things start looking up for you, and that this story keeps cheering you up somewhat.

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09/28/10 4:35 - **Well played, pet**

09/28/10 4:38 - **How did you get this number?**

09/28/10 4:40 – **I could call up the nice old bloke from Campus Security and report them missing**

09/28/10 4:41 – **What, your pride and reputation?**

09/28/10 4:43 – **I want the drives back Arthur**

09/28/10 4:44 – **Of course. When I'm done with them, they're all yours.**

09/28/10 4:47 – **Stop toying with me**

09/28/10 4:48 – **Sucks, doesn't it? Seriously, how did you get this number? I change it after every job.**

Eames didn't reply after that message, and Arthur was fairly alright with that. However, that embarrassing sense of giddiness swept over him as he leaned back in his chair and reviewed the exchange of text messages. The forger was probably cursing up a storm by now. Much to his credit, it had only taken him a couple of hours to realize he had been robbed of the information. It was going to be an interesting day tomorrow; maybe he should just avoid going to class altogether. That would constitute as quitting while he was ahead, right?

The information was proving to be invaluable. Not only were the financial plans as shoddy and full of holes as their client had assumed, but the extra memory stick offered everything he needed to know about Eames' job. Contracts. Plans. Schedules. He had to admit the forger was pretty damn organized when he put effort into it. Yet it felt almost felt unsporting to use this to his advantage. Like Eames had said, it was just business. He wouldn't feel bad about stealing information from anyone else, since it was crucial to the job. Yet, the personal aspect of it felt like an inevitable risk.

Arthur wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he knew that pick pocketing him had been a last minute thought. The kiss had most definitely been without ulterior motive until the opportunity dawned on him. And some irritating shred of conscience in him regretted how it must have looked. Eames was likely more furious about being taken advantage of than the actual theft.

It was something that he couldn't possibly dwell on, though. Hopefully the forger would understand. They had been playing a rather tense game of Cat and Mouse until now, anyway, and this was just Arthur upping the ante. Besides, he was merely showing the other man that he ranked somewhere below work, no mater how maddeningly tempting he was.

Continuing to fish through the electronic files, Arthur attempted to put the issue far from his mind. How could he allow himself to get distracted when he had a virtual goldmine in front of him? What had been their only disadvantage was now gone. Arthur knew exactly what Eames was up to, and even if he shifted plans at the last minute, there was no way he was going to avoid them. They already knew how he worked to begin with, even if this plan before him had been a massive curveball.

Teaching the subject the art of forging? _Genius_. Any skilled extractor could get past the aggressive projections of a trained subconscious, but to be trained to recognize a dream and to fake identities within that dream could have incredible advantages. The subject must have some great potential already if Eames was even willing to consider taking a pupil. Forgers were rare in the business, so competition was scarce. But the university president likely had no plans other than to defend himself.

Arthur jumped when there was a knock on the door, and turned in his chair. "Yes?" He heard the electronic lock shift as it recognized the card key, and watched as the door cracked. He closed some of the documents on the screen as Mal's head popped in.

"You alright, Arthur?" Checking up on him, to make sure he didn't collapse in starvation or exhaustion. When he nodded, she stepped into the room. The woman paused as she spied a jacket on the floor, which looked like a pinpoint of chaos in his otherwise clean hotel room. Mal's eyebrows furrowed a little, and she stooped to pick it up. "You're distracted." It was not a question, but a statement. They knew him far too well.

"Just occupied with work." Arthur lied, turning back to his laptop and looking over some harmless files that he had already seen several times. "How are managing with the building?"

Mal had sensed it. He was trying to avoid her gentle prying, and wasn't doing an excellent job of hiding it. He couldn't act. She stepped over, and Arthur could feel her curious smile as she placed an arm over his shoulder. "Maybe you're working a little too hard." Her voice was gentle; the tone she always used when trying to coax the young man to take a break. "You've been quiet since this job started. Moreso than usual, too."

Arthur sighed and leaned back in his chair. He took his jacket from her and folded it absently in his lap. "It's been difficult, is all." He allowed Mal to lean against the desk and straighten his hair, which he hadn't bothered to fix since earlier that afternoon. Luckily, she didn't directly ask just why he was so ruffled.

"Talk to me." She was trying to coax him further. An immense feeling of guilt stirred in Arthur's chest, and he sank into his chair a little. "I know when something's wrong, Arthur. You're not eating, or sleeping. Dare I even mention the mood swings? When you're not over the moon, you're fuming."

Arthur managed a smile, but he kept staring blankly at his computer screen. "Thanks. I feel better already."

Laughing gently, Mal turned his head to make him look at her. "Tell me what's bothering you, because I'm getting worried."

Oh God, More guilt. The young point man sighed and leaned against the hand now resting on his cheek. "It's no big deal, Mal. This job is just getting harder every day, and I'm just trying to work it out."

"But you love a challenge." she pressed softly.

She had to know sooner or later. Preferably the former, because if Mal found out at the last minute who they were working against, she would be even angrier. Arthur let out a soft sigh.

"We have someone working against us." He was going to be a vague as possible at first, possibly just out of cowardice. Mal didn't look very concerned, however. At least not about that hurdle.

"You're certainly not new to working with minds trained by extractors. Why would you be worried about that?"

Arthur swallowed a lump in his throat and moved away, getting to his feet. Highly out of character, he threw his folded jacket into a rumpled heap on the bed. He felt angry, but he had nowhere to direct it. It was nobody's fault. It was just a purely frustrating situation. He avoided her gaze, but knew she was watching him.

"It's not that. He's got a forger - teaching him - working at the school." Arthur's throat damn near closed before he could choke out another word. And suddenly the room felt ten degrees colder. And yet he felt the most intense heat boring into his back, as Mal was silent for a few terrifying seconds.

"Please don't tell me," There was far more tension in her voice than pleading, but both tones were present. Arthur deflated as he heard her straighten up and step over.

"It's him." It was all Arthur could manage at that very moment. He turned to look at Mal, who looked livid. He could, however, see her conscious attempt to stay calm and reasonable.

"Has he seen you?"

Arthur ran his hands over his face and took a deep breath. "Mal, it's okay." he tried to tell her, although the smoldering in her eyes didn't offer much hope that she would believe that for a second. "We talked. There's no hard feelings, about now or… last time." His voice faded in strength and volume as he spoke. Mal looked anything but convinced.

"You told Dom, didn't you?" She sounded almost venomous. Damn him. Cobb was an excellent liar except when it came to his wife. The stress of keeping it from her had been so obvious.

"Look, I didn't want you to be upset if we could avoid it."

"You_ lied_ to me."

"I did no such thing, and you know it!"

Their voices were beginning to rise ever so slightly. This was the path that Arthur had been trying to avoid. Mal wouldn't listen to reason when it came to this. To Eames. The issue had never been resolved after she assaulted the forger in a rage. She was just far too protective of the point man, although he was an intelligent, capable adult. And, since the argument after the confrontation last year, nobody ever dared bring it up again. And, obviously, there was a severe lack of closure on the issue if they were both growing angry so quickly.

"Why would you even bother talking to him, Arthur? He's trash. _Absolute fucking trash_."

For a moment, Arthur's vision whited out. He feared it would be one of those terrible crime show clichés where someone loses awareness and 'wakes up' washing blood off their hands. Thankfully, this was not that kind of situation. He found himself taking a deep breath, but it was shaky. He closed his eyes for a moment, as well, trying desperately to calm himself. He counted to ten.

Nope. Still wanted to throw a lamp at her.

Arthur snatched up his jacket with more force than necessary. When Mal asked, quite irritably, where he was going, he made a calm suggestion that she was better off fornicating with herself than prying into his business. He brushed past her, pocketed his phone and two flash drives, and stormed out. She might have tried to stop him. It all blurred together by that point. All he really knew was that yelling was ringing in his ears as he retreated down the hallway. By the time he reached the elevator, he had to lean against the mirrored wall in fear of collapsing.

How he remembered where to go would forever be a mystery. But he crossed the city in a daze, somehow knowing what address to tell the taxi driver. Arthur felt drained, yet he was buzzing with adrenaline. As an independent man, he knew that he had been irrationally upset with Mal's attempts to 'help'. This had been the problem last time. Having someone else trying to guide his life in the slightest sparked instant rage in him. It was the only thing that stressed his friendship with Mal. Several blocks away, he was able to calm down enough to feel bad. Maybe he should go back. Maybe she was right.

No. Fuck them. He was still too offended to go back, and Mal would probably be out of control. She had no right to insult Eames like that. Yes, he was a tramp. A liar. The most intolerable ass in existence. You wouldn't trust your goldfish with him, because he'd either sell or accidentally kill it. He was obnoxious, shameless, selfish and deceitful. Tasteless. Outrageous. Bewitching. Impossible. Fucking _magnetic_. Eames was everything that was wrong with mankind.

But Arthur wasn't going to hear it from someone else.

09/28/10 5:36 – **You can have your stupid drives back. I'm bringing them over now.**

09/28/10 5:37 – **Can't trust you in my flat unless you agree to a strip search before you leave**

Arthur gritted his teeth. Presumptuous bastard. Yet, he couldn't stop himself.

09/28/10 5:39 – **Not without wine.**

09/28/10 5:40 – **Please. I can do better than a bottle of merlot, darling**


	7. Chapter 7

Again, I want to start off by thanking you guys for all over the wonderful reviews! All of the positive feedback has been very encouraging. And sorry about this being a couple days late. Halloween parties and assignments are a hectic, dangerous combination.

I had a bit too much fun with this one. Toying with the concept of Eames being unpredictable is something I enjoy. Hopefully you guys agree.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing.

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By the time he was buzzing up to Eames' apartment, Arthur had stopped shaking. Externally, he was as composed as ever, but perhaps wearing a slight bit more annoyance than usual. The autumn evening and a long drive through traffic had cooled him somewhat. Yet, it had not changed his mind in the least about what he was doing. There was no place in a city to let out frustration gracefully. As soon as he heard the door unlock for him, he pushed through and made his way towards the stairs in haste.

When knocking on the door and waiting in the hallway, he reached the point where he was able to think clearly. But no, he wasn't turning back. Nothing good would come out of returning at this moment. Arthur braced for a wave of rage to hit him as soon as Eames answered the door. He knew they had returned to their former ways when he simply accepted that the forger was going to annoy him immensely in some manner. Being made to wait when Eames knew he was in the building was a little irritating in itself, but after a few seconds the door was opened and held for him.

At that moment, the most heavenly smell struck Arthur. Any hesitation he might have had was eradicated by his stomach, which was on the verge of caving in on itself. It was the smell of cooked lamb, an array of spices and noodles. It dragged him through the doorway. It even took a second before his mind even registered the fact that Eames was smiling at him and handing him a glass of red wine. It was faintly chilled.

"Dinner in exchange for the information? Sounds only fair to me." Eames said, seemingly amused by how visibly perplexed Arthur was. The point man swallowed, noticing how much he had been salivating.

"I just came to give them to you." It was a weak response, and they were both quite aware of it.

"No, you didn't." Eames smiled shrewdly as he walked off back towards the kitchen, where something was still hissing in the pan. Arthur found that he didn't have the energy to be annoyed; he simply shrugged off his jacket, hung it up, stepped out of his shoes and followed.

For a temporary apartment, Eames had a very nice place. It was one of those older style buildings, with red exposed brick along at least one wall. The large, almost floor-to-ceiling windows and other faintly modern elements made it look like a young man's home. Hell, even the furniture looked clean and expensive. Arthur was beginning to wonder if he'd suffered from an aneurism during the cab ride, and this was all just his own broken mind playing tricks.

Although feeling a little guarded, he joined Eames in the kitchen after a quick glance around. The only thing that convinced him that the forger actually lived here was the sporadic clutter here and there, and the fact that everywhere, could faintly smell the almost permanent scent of the other's cologne under the torturous smell of good food. He eyed two plates on the small table at the opposite end of the kitchen, and played with the glass in his hand almost sheepishly. To serve red wine cold was like a sin amongst the sophisticated circles, but he loved it. He hadn't expected Eames to remember that.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, leaning against the island counter and forcing himself to look at the other man, who was turning off the range and giving the contents of the pan one more push around. He looked completely relaxed, perhaps even cheerful. It was almost unnerving.

"Because we've both had a bad day, and I think we deserve a treat." Oddly enough, there was no tone of innuendo attached to the word 'treat'. Was he actually referring to the meal, and not the inevitable furious sex on that expensive-looking leather couch? As if he felt Arthur's gaze on him, Eames turned his head to look at the point man and grinned. "Relax, darling. Have I yet to poison you with wine?"

Arthur fidgeted with his glass again, looking away. "I think you have good reason to, this time."

"And you have good reason to send Mrs. Cobb to my door with a shovel and a shotgun, but I'm still breathing." When he saw the instant wounded look on Arthur's face, Eames froze for a moment. It seemed to click within seconds. "Oh. So that's what happened."

"I didn't want her to know about you working against us. But feel free to poison my food, anyway." He mumbled this almost bitterly, staring down at the dark wine like it was suddenly interesting. It smelled just as tempting as the food. Eames seemed rather unbothered as he moved towards the table to load the plates. The food looked like something between stew and stir-fry, with large chunks of meat and vegetables sitting in ample pasta and sauce. Arthur felt his stomach ache again.

"So you told her I'm in town, left in a huff, and invited yourself over to my flat to make a peace offering of flash drives that you've already copied all of the information from." The forger didn't sound angry, or even annoyed. In fact, there was something of a chuckle in his voice. Arthur shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

"And you're making me dinner." he stated flatly, unable to help the smile that was creeping into his expression. "Sometimes I wonder how normal people go about this sort of thing."

"I haven't a clue, darling." Eames grinned as he moved to place the pan and wooden spoon in the sink, where the hot metal sizzled against the cool water. He then picked up his own wine glass, gave Arthur a shining look, and headed back to the table with an invitational sweep of the arm. "But I imagine it must be pretty bloody boring."

The food was amazing. It was a recipe that Eames had picked up in Greece, and had been dying to try. What was more incredible was the fact that the other man could cook. Arthur supposed that after the incident when he managed to unwittingly obliterate a coffee maker with an overflowing filter and a great amount of short-circuiting, the possibility of Eames preparing anything consumable became out of the question. But this was exactly what Arthur's stomach needed; something filling and home-cooked. As they ate, the forger inevitably got the story out of him. It turned into a bit of a rant on Arthur's part, as he explained that Mal had overreacted and she was still actually pretty unhappy with the whole matter from a year ago. He felt worse about lying to Eames about the situation than to her. Maybe there was something wrong with that. But at least the forger listened to why he tried to convince him that she had gotten over the past incident.

"I just thought I could balance the problem on my own. I usually can." Arthur finally said, feeling better yet quite tired after letting everything out. Three glasses of (excellent) wine was likely of no help to the latter. And it was almost criminal how easy it was to talk to Eames. He listened, absorbed, and actually offered insight. Alcohol wasn't even needed for that.

"I agree, you usually can. Nobody can juggle like you can." The forger was watching Arthur across the small table, loosely holding his fork so it stood on point in the middle of his nearly empty plate. "But this isn't something you could sweep under the rug, Arthur. She was going to find out eventually."

Oh hell. He used his name. When it was serious, Eames dropped the little pet names and endearments. True discussions between them had been few in the past, but it was something Arthur had kept in his memory. The point man chewed his bite slowly for a moment before forcing himself to swallow the food. His eyes moved elsewhere, looking at nothing in particular but anything that wasn't Eames.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" he sighed, utterly failing to sound defensive and lacking the energy to care.

"Considering you're here and not there, I'll assume that this is harder for you than I thought it would be." The forger sounded quite sincere. "Unless this is a matter of your independence versus Mal's overprotective nature. If so, then you're not getting far by rebelling."

Arthur set down his fork and took a little more than a sip of wine. That wasn't it. Not in the least. But Arthur's lingering pride didn't want to admit it. He loathed to accept that he had come to see Eames because Mal had attacked him. Calling him 'absolute fucking trash' was not as bad as a punch in the nose, but it was still uncalled for. In some way, it hurt Arthur. Because despite their battles, their personality clashes and the utter frustration he felt around the forger, he knew that he was a good man. Just under the conman's smile was a gentleman. And Arthur had never, ever felt better than he did when he was with Eames, whether they were fighting or doing the complete opposite. God. He was such a mess.

When he didn't say anything, Eames patiently pressed on. "Why are you here, Arthur?" The point man had a feeling that he already knew. Because Eames could practically read his mind. It was annoying, but he could not be angry, because the other man was making a sincere attempt to help him. So he opted for the best excuse to be honest as possible; he picked up the wine bottle and refilled his own glass.

"Maybe I knew there was a free meal and a shag in it for me?" He tried to be flippant about it, to avoid the truth, but his companion was not wavering from his gentlemanly behaviour. It was almost unnerving, when any other time such a comment might have found him sprawled out on the table half-naked in about ten seconds.

"There's always that." Eames said with an amused and harmless smile, setting down his fork and pushing his plate aside. "But don't think that's it. You can get a free meal and shag out of me any time, without family drama and returning my stolen property."

Arthur chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, but couldn't hold down the comment. "You stole half of it from me in the first place."

"And you stole that from my place of employment. But you didn't come all this way to argue about the rightful ownership of confidential documents." Eames reached over for the bottle and filled his own glass. "You are here because you need something from me. A place to stay the night? A means to get back at Mal? Please, tell me what it is so I know we're both on the same page."

"You're awfully comfortable with the idea of being used." Arthur pointed out as he took another sip. The edges of his vision were blurring a little, and he was feeling like he could be painfully honest any minute. Maybe he should stop drinking. Eames cocked his head and smiled again.

"I'm comfortable with accepting that my value differs with the opinions of many, many people."

The comment stunned Arthur. He slowly set his glass down again and fixed Eames with a long, firm look. A sick, tense feeling coiled in his stomach, and he suddenly felt drained. A sour feeling was left in his mouth. His hands began to feel very cold and clammy. It was like some great illness swept down on him without warning, sucking the life out of him instantly. His voice was quiet, confused and almost pained as he worked up a response.

"You think I don't care about you." No, he didn't have the energy or the desire to lie and pretend that Eames was completely right in his assumption. Any other day, he might have. He would have done anything in his power to convince the other that he didn't care in the least, and that he was exactly what Mal had said – trash. But Arthur's proud malevolence had run out. He couldn't be anything but honest with the forger, who seemed to scoff before giving him a strange smile. There was warmth, but acceptance. Like he was telling them both that he was okay with the truth.

"You know why people call me, Arthur?" He sounded so unlike himself; serious yet deflated. "Clients, coworkers, bloody one-night stands; you know why they come to me? Because it's convenient. Because I drop off the face of the earth so often that commitment to anything is impossible. People like that about me, and I know that it's part of who I am. Forgettable, temporary Eames. To you, I am a challenge; a game. Maybe a safe place to crash for the moment. And I'm okay with that."

Arthur didn't know what he was doing, but he was on his feet in an instant. When Eames looked confused, he panicked internally. That was what he thought. That was sincerely, truthfully, how he thought Arthur saw him. It was exactly what he wanted; on any other day. The point man had consistently dished out abuse and acted so detached, because he wanted Eames to feel like he meant nothing. But that was untrue. What he really thought of Eames, he had no idea. Wine and upset and a lack of sleep probably had his common sense stretched thin. But he knew, for a fact, that Eames was wrong. And he would have loved to say all of that, so they were exactly on the 'same page', but his eloquence failed him. He could only manage his default words.

"You're an idiot." He mumbled with a distinct lack of strength. Much to his anger, Eames just laughed quietly and stood up as well. He was picking up the plates like there was absolutely no serious conversation at hand.

"You always say that when I hit the nail on the head." He seemed rather determined to remain nonchalant about something like this. It was more than a little upsetting for Arthur. He followed as Eames went to the sink, finding his equilibrium to be a little skewed. Eames looked back with a smile as Arthur almost collided with the counter. "Sit down, love."

No, he wouldn't let Eames brush this off. Arthur gripped the edge of the granite countertop to steady himself. "That's what you really think. Is that how you feel about me?"

"I just made you dinner. What do you think?" There was something odd about Eames' otherwise normal, teasing tone.

"Stop toying with me."

"Sucks, doesn't it?"

Arthur fumed at the forger for a moment before straightening himself and walking out of the kitchen. He didn't know where he was going, being well on his way to drunk and already at the last place he could go before breaking into the school library and sleeping there. But he was hurt. He didn't know what he wanted, but it wasn't where this conversation was going. It had all been alright before they started talking about it. Being honest with each other was just a bad idea, when they made their living lying to everyone else.

Before he could half-stagger to the door, Arthur felt a gentle hand grip his elbow and tug him towards the couch. He swore at Eames, told him to let go, but was just a little too intoxicated to swing a punch if he really wanted to. He was pushed down onto the couch, where his body conceded and simply lost all tension.

"You can go, but at least sober up first. Canadians are nice folks, but this isn't exactly a crime-free city." Eames said, sitting down beside Arthur. It bothered him more that the forger wasn't invading his personal space, but instead keeping a respectful distance. Arthur didn't know what to expect when the other wasn't being deliberately irritating. "Maybe we can talk this through, and you can see if you still want to go in an hour?"

Damn him. Damn him and how he could be a good person when least expected. Arthur was still fuming quietly, but he felt like he couldn't keep up the anger anymore. He was too tired. Nodding, he sank into the couch a little more and sighed. He rubbed at his face as Eames went to fetch him something to sober up with.

"So, why don't you enlighten me? Because I clearly have it wrong." Arthur winced at the invitation when the other returned, placing a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him. No, he didn't want to explain himself. It had been so much better when they didn't ask questions. When it was just allowed to be whatever it was, and they could just enjoy the arguments and the affection without wondering why. Running his hands through his hair, Arthur heaved a sigh.

"Can't we just leave it at the fact that you're an idiot?"

"Probably not."

Another sigh, and Arthur leaned his head back against the cool leather of the couch. He couldn't say it. Whatever 'it' was, he couldn't bring himself to admit it. All he knew was that Eames was not just a game to him. Under all that forced contempt and shallow attraction, he respected the forger. But could he even say that? He feared the fact that he would probably sign himself up for an eternity of mockery if he admitted that.

Silence hung heavy between them, as Arthur tried to decide whether he was angry with himself or just far too drunk for this nonsense. When he looked to Eames, the other was patiently waiting. A friendly smile and eager eyes. He wanted to punch him for managing to be so reasonable when Arthur himself was such a mess. The point man narrowed his eyes. Yet, under that infuriatingly good-natured attitude, there was something in Eames. If Arthur could dare to make assumptions, he would wonder if there was vulnerability in the other's eyes. Like there was something sincere and afraid under that incredible poker face.

As if Eames needed anything to make him even more magnetic. Arthur wasn't quite sure what sparked it, but they were tangled together on the couch in and instant. There couldn't possibly be something unconscious about straddling another man's lap, but that was where he found himself. This kiss was just as abrupt as the one from earlier that day, but it was not quite as violent. It was a heavy battle of mouths in a power struggle, but there was nothing downright hostile about it. Arthur could focus on the details, this time.

Beyond the food and wine, the taste was so inexplicably Eames. And the calloused fingertips dragging across his jaw and down his neck were so familiar that Arthur felt himself shivering. The shirt under his own hands was, much to his surprise, a soft cotton rather that the usual offensive polyester fabric. The subtle scratching of facial hair against his own skin, and the unmistakable blend of cologne and Eames' own scent plunged him into utter oblivion, as he was completely wrapped in the other's presence. Every little part of it felt like he was being welcomed back. Like he had been away from home for far too long.

It was heated, but not frenzied. The kiss was slow, deliberate and deep. They didn't grope blindly at each other, but instead just tried to establish as much contact as possible, as if they were both utterly freezing and dying for heat. But in fact, Arthur felt that he could combust at any given moment. If Eames still felt like a piece of meat after this, Arthur might seriously consider breaking his legs and leaving him in a ditch.

The hands on his hips tightened their grip briefly, before Eames pulled away from the kiss for a desperate breath of air. It was only at that moment that Arthur realized his own aching lungs. They panted for a moment, both dazed and quiet, before Eames' head leaned back against the couch and he laughed breathlessly.

"Well, that was informative-" The latter half of his statement was strained with surprise and a slightly higher pitch as Arthur dove for his throat. The point man had not forgotten his weaknesses, and he knew that a well-aimed bite a couple inches directly under his ear would have Eames seeing stars. It made him stop talking, at least. As the other groaned and tensed underneath him, he sucked at the skin mercilessly until he heard his own name being gasped. Sparks of predatory delight ignited at the base of Arthur's spine. He wanted to leave visible mark, because he knew that the other lacked the willpower to tell him to stop. He wanted everyone to see it. A year apart didn't mean a damn thing; he still had every right to claim the forger for himself.

As soon as he released the skin from his teeth, Arthur felt a tug at his hair that tilted his head back up to Eame's mouth. This time there was more ferocity in the kiss. And, judging by the overwhelmingly delightful feeling of nails raking at the skin on his stomach, they were no longer playing fair. Arthur was almost upset with himself for not thinking of doing this to get Eames to drop the 'gentleman' act earlier. Shirts were clawed at until they were less obtrusive. There was a brief wrestling match, until the other eventually conceded and allowed himself to be pushed down to lay on the couch. Shirt open and already looking half-ravished, he was perfect. He even appeared put off about being pushed down, much to Arthur's delight.

"I'll be good to you, darling." Arthur purred, straddling the other man again and promptly grinding his hips down. They were both already quite hard, which made the sensation even more delightful. The chorus of moans from both of them was a sound he had missed, and he greedily wanted to hear more. Eames said something incoherent. It was gasped and desperate, and Arthur wasn't willing to listen. He took his turn to grab a handful of the other's hair and kiss him forcefully.

He didn't want to hear it. He was finished with talking and thinking and questioning. They had done too much of that, lately. All he wanted was Eames, in all of his infuriating, beautiful complexity. It was something that, at this moment, he felt was truly his own, and the only thing he was still sure of.


	8. Chapter 8

Finally, we get to what all of you guys really waited for. I'll be honest; slipping into the 'M' rating for sexual content isn't exactly something I've done before. It was one big experiment for me, balancing emotions, descriptions and trying to find the line between revealing and explicit. I hope you guys enjoy the result. Though, this story is far from over. Based on the feedback, I may try to see if I can make everyone happy. Tell me what you like and didn't like, and I will be very grateful.

And, as always, thank you all a MILLION times for the amazing reviews! I love you guys!

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, still.  
**Warning:** Finally in the 'M' rating! Woo!

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If Arthur knew that merely waking up would feel like dragging his head along a gravel road for six miles, he would have made a conscious effort to perish in his sleep. Light filtering through the curtains, although soft and indirect, could be compared to a pair of drills being pushed into his eye sockets. He made some vaguely miserable sound and buried himself deep in silk sheets and under pillows. The worst part was knowing that his hotel didn't have bedding so nice, and having absolutely no idea where he might be.

He scrambled to remember why he was half undressed and suffering from a massive headache. The awful taste in his mouth had the slightest flavour of wine, which explained a fair bit right off the bad. Red wine hangovers were the worst. But at least the majority of the suffering was in his head and not his stomach. He rolled onto his other side experimentally, getting a spike of pain in his skull but thankfully no nausea. In his haze, he also realized that he was alone in the bed. When he finally dared wrench his eyes open, the soft grey light in the room was no less agonizing. But Arthur braved it, as he had definitely endured worse in his life, and moved to sit up enough to canvass the room with his gaze.

It was a clean bedroom. Not large, but well kept. The conservative light, on neutral walls and hardwood floors, made it seem rather plain. But an ugly brown blazer thrown over the armchair in the corner tipped him off. Arthur's mouth instantly went dry, and he would have definitely been sick now if there had been any previous nausea. He wrestled his way out of the duvet and sheets, although it was the most comfortable place he could be right now. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took several long, deep breaths.

Sex with Eames had been more or less inevitable. From the second he saw the forger on campus, it was a cold, hard fact. And he had been alright with that. But as the entirely of the previous evening trickled back into memory, piling heavily against the tender interior of his skull, he wanted to crumble under the weight. But, as he let his fingers smooth out the wrinkles of his jeans – the jeans that he was wearing and didn't so much have an unfastened button, he found himself struggling to remember how the night ended.

Dinner, drinking, talking, drinking, trying to leave… Eames being so obnoxiously irresistible. Oh. _Right_. He faintly remembered climbing into his lap and attacking his mouth with the need of a starved animal. _Fuck_.

But did they go through with it? Memory faded out around the point where he was clawing away Eames' shirt. Considering he was still half-dressed, he was questioning it. And where the hell was the forger? As he moved to stand, Arthur caught sight of a glass of water and two pills sitting on the nightstand, waiting for him.

His panic deflated at that moment, replaced chiefly by anger with himself.

He downed the painkillers with absolutely no consideration of his own pride, and finally got to his feet. It hurt to move, but he had to find Eames. For the life of him, Arthur couldn't find his shirt in the bedroom. But he felt reservations about walking around half-exposed, so he stole one from the closet (a rather impressive walk-in closet, the bastard). Even hung over, he had just a bit of sense; it was the least offensive shirt he could find in Eames' wardrobe. He took the half-empty glass of water with him when he left the room.

Stepping out into the hallway, Arthur moved with silence that was almost feline. Why he was being cautious was anyone's guess. It was not like Eames would kill him on sight. At least, he hoped not. The other man had been maddeningly unpredictable as of late. He wouldn't put it past the forger to switch it up just to keep Arthur on his toes.

What he found in the living room, however, was hardly dangerous. Sprawled out on the sofa, head awkwardly and painfully tucked between cushions, was Eames. The forger was fast asleep, tangled in a thin blanket and shirtless. Arthur could see some state of abuse on him; bruises and bite marks all over what he could see of Eames' neck and shoulder. Again, despite the glass of water still in his hand, he found his mouth going dry. The sight jogged his memory just the slightest.

He remembered being fairly angry with Eames, although that was nothing knew. But he had felt hurt, rejected – oh. _Oh_.

Eames had refused to sleep with him.

Arthur felt dizzy, either from the hangover or the sheer audacity of the truth, and found himself sitting on the arm of the couch at the forger's feet. It was just impossible to conceive, that Eames might deny him such a thing. It was Eames._ Eames_. When thinking of all the things that this man had effortlessly convinced Arthur into doing, it was baffling to consider that he would turn down such an opportunity. The point man had been more than willing. Hell, he remembered making a fumbling attempt to undo the other's pants while simultaneously giving him that painful-looking hickey on his collarbone. Wait. A _hickey_? Christ, they were like teenagers.

As Arthur was sorting through his thoughts, threading fingers through his messy hair and trying to decide if he should go, he felt the man on the couch stir. Eames made some indistinct sound and rolled over onto his back. A wince on pain crossed his closed eyes as he stretched the muscles of his neck. Perhaps it was his strong survival instinct, but the forger sensed Arthur's looming presence and opened his eyes quickly. However, he seemed to relax when he saw who was perched at the other end of the couch. A faint smile even crossed his lips.

And there they were. In the not-quite morning light and the silence of a waking city, Arthur never felt so overwhelmed.

The would-be awkward conversation was carried out in silence. Eames, clearly better off than Arthur in terms of a hangover, sat up and made space for the other to sit down properly. Reluctantly, the point man did just that. He settled beside the other and helped him unwrap himself from the blanket. Eames, with soft amusement in his eyes, ran a thumb over the sleeve of the shirt that Arthur was wearing, tracing the path of dark green stripes. Arthur handed him the glass, offering him the rest of the water. It was taken gratefully and downed; no doubt the forger had been rather dehydrated.

Once the cup was set down, they seemed to settle together seamlessly. With his head on the other's shoulder, Arthur just let his eyes ask. The bulk of their relationship was based on banter and argument, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything. Because whatever words he might use would be inadequate. Eames' expression softened as he looked down, and there was a tense smile on his lips as his fingers worked through the younger man's hair.

Arthur was confused, and still a little hurt. But Eames wasn't apologizing. He didn't regret anything, after all, and there was likely no chance that he would even pretend to feel guilty about doing the right thing. And the point man understood that, but the reason why he had been turned away was lost on him. He was not even worried about his pride, by this point. He wanted to know. Eames glanced towards the kitchen briefly before returning his eyes to Arthur.

"You think I don't care about you." The forger spoke this in a sort of exasperated sigh. Arthur felt a sharp pang of something in his chest, wholly unpleasant and sickening. Eames moved to stand, but Arthur repeated the previous night's tactic of planting himself in the other man's lap.

"Why didn't we have sex last night?" he finally demanded, pinning Eames' legs down and refusing to move until he got the answer. Eames tried to push him away at first, but froze when the question was thrown his way. His muscles eased slowly, and his expression pulled into one that could very easily make one feel like an absolute insult to average human intelligence. Arthur was not used to being told he was stupid, especially by someone like Eames.

"Because you were inebriated, you idiot." Eames said, making another push to dismount Arthur and stand. The point man clung, however, glaring down at him.

"What difference does that make? You were drunk, too." he shot back. "You think I would have been mad because of that, when we've done that before?" Arthur was unwavering, even as he saw Eames begin to show his frustration. His smooth, perpetually smiling face pulled into a rare frown. It was firm and almost angry. Another attempt to gently shove Arthur away was unsuccessful.

"Wow, Arthur. I don't even know what to say." Eames growled. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he saw him upset. Was there even a last time? While Arthur was a lit firecracker in terms of temperament, Eames was the opposite. A complete fucking Zen Master. And that was probably the only thing that saved the moment. The forger relaxed again and leaned his head back, seeming to take a calming breath. Arthur waited it out, until the other spoke again. "I don't want to have sex with you drunk. Isn't that enough of a reason?"

Arthur was silent for a moment, and he felt a steady increase of pressure in his skull. Like he needed any more. He let his gaze fall, looking at nothing in particular (though, he was looking in the direction of Eames' bare chest pretty intently). He couldn't fathom it. He tried to ask why, but it came out in a quiet mumble. Eames' anger seemed to dissipate rapidly. He managed a quiet laugh, much to the point man's annoyance. He swatted the forger on the side of the head. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to convey his displeasure with being laughed at. Eames grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer, still chuckling.

"It's no fun when you're drunk, darling." No more irritation, just an affectionate purr. Eames seemed almost relieved. Arthur felt a fluttering in his chest and heat in his face, especially when Eames smiled. "You were giving me the distinct impression that I meant more to you than a cheap shag. Isn't it the least I can do to return the favour?"

"Only if you mean it." Arthur sighed, leaning back a little bit until Eames tugged him closer again. That irritating, alluring smile shifted into a grin.

"I wrestled you off of me, passed up on sex, let you call me all sorts of terrible names, then let you have my bed to yourself. Stop asking so many bloody questions, love. You know the answers."

It was like stomping on a landmine. The silent world around them, with faint cold morning light and utter stillness, exploded into a wave of colour and life. The words 'hangover' and 'common sense' were instantly eradicated from the English language. Like they hadn't missed a beat, they resumed a hasty, lustful series of kisses and movements. Arthur had to briefly consider how kissing Eames was like dreaming; he never really knew when or how it started, but he found himself right in the middle of things and utterly unwilling to ask why. Again, this was a brief thought, as the forger promptly hauled them both up off the couch. There was something practiced and perfect about it, how they didn't break the kiss or falter in trying to untangle themselves. Eames did earn himself another smack for trying to carry Arthur bridal-style into the bedroom. Only then did he break the kiss and opt to haul the slighter man over his shoulder.

"You asshole." Arthur tried to snarl this as he squirmed, but the ferocity of it was muted by the yelp he uttered when Eames grabbed the backs of his thighs and hoisted him down onto the bed. It would have been absolute hell with his aching head if he hadn't landed in the overstuffed duvet, which absorbed the impact and almost comically consumed him. As he struggled to sit up, he heard Eames snicker. This died, however, when he hooked his feet around the backs of the forger's legs and tugged him closer, ruining his balance.

Tumbling and wrestling on the queen size bed was a lot easier than it had been on the sofa. And, as they weren't drunk this time around, it was less of an actual battle. Just a lot of fumbling with buttons and zippers. Eames actually took his time trying to remove the shirt that Arthur was wearing, and gave a pouting whine of "I _liked_ that one." when the point man grew impatient and removed it himself, sending a couple of buttons flying.

Arthur couldn't remember if they used to laugh this much, or if Eames used to be so doting with touches and attention. They were definitely used to something a little more hasty and angry, so it was different. With the selfish, single-goaled mindset gone, it felt more like having sex with the forger for the first time. For a long stretch of time, all they did was rediscover each other. At first it felt ridiculous and cliché. But by the time he found a ticklish spot on Eames' ribs, and they discovered that the place between Arthur's shoulder blades was sensitive enough to reduce him to gasps and moans of "Oh _God_, Eames." when assaulted with one's tongue, the silliness of it all ceased to matter.

The whole experience was endlessly better, when they were focused more on pleasing each other than their own orgasm. It was no longer a race, either; not a hurried fuck on a desk with people in the next room. It was real. It was forever before they actually began having sex, and Arthur couldn't have possibly complained. He struggled to remember if Eames was usually this gentle with preparing him, if he used to kiss him while doing so and seek out his most sensitive place just for the sake of driving him wild before they even began. Any other time, Arthur would have been embarrassed about being reduced to a trembling mess. But it didn't seem to matter. He would return the favour.

The initial pace of the sex, deliberately slow and gentle, might have been awkward if they hadn't spent forever building up to it. Admittedly, they were both out of their element like this. Every previous time, it had been furious, with insults and orders between panting breaths. They had been just as determined to destroy each other as they were to get off. This wasn't nearly as hostile. Eames was actually being careful.

"Don't you dare be gentle with me, Mr. Eames." Arthur purred into the other's ear, bucking his hips in a demanding manner and delighting in the surprised groan he earned for his efforts. The pace suddenly spiked a little.

"Relax, pet. Just trying to make sure you last." Arthur felt a grin against his shoulder before Eames bit down on the skin. At the same time, he thrust deeper to stop the sputtered, offended response before Arthur could even open his mouth.

Okay, they hadn't changed _that_ much.

Much to his delight, it was not this maddeningly slow and cautious for long. Eames had not forgotten what he liked, and did not miss the chance to cater to it. He hated to admit it, but the forger had been smart about it. If he had started off with the rapid, merciless pace that they eventually moved into, Arthur might have been done in minutes. Eames knew the exact angle to maximize his pleasure, but changed it up now and then to keep it inconsistent. And, perhaps, because he liked it when Arthur swore at him.

Another discovery that Arthur enjoyed was the delight of actually kissing during intercourse. It was messy, suffocating, and wonderful. Every one seemed to last for minutes on end, and his lungs burned with a desperate need for air. Eames' lips and tongue had a unique ability to render him absolutely stupid. Luckily, however, Arthur had a similar power over him. Having his bottom lip bitten thoroughly scrambled his mind, and Arthur knew exactly how to exploit that. It was slightly difficult, however, balancing between kissing and touching and moving his hips. It was never a problem before, when they didn't care. But it was a refreshing challenge.

When they weren't kissing, it was a broken conversation. It was an intricate mixture of directions, pleads, affection, and sometimes the filthiest things Arthur never thought he would hear or say in his lifetime. But it eventually boiled down to the most raw expressions of desire, and confessions of being completely, utterly consumed in one another. The way Eames purred in his ear, uttering his name over and over like a mantra, just overwhelmed him. He broke down, losing all composure and self-restraint. His nails buried themselves in the skin of the other's back. He arched uncontrollably, letting out a loud, endless strings of _OhGod _and_ Nathanielmoremoreplease._

It was something so sacred, something he never shared. Like a grand secret only they knew, and Eames shivered when he heard his own, real name being uttered in the midst of such an intense moment. It was seconds, mere seconds that felt like years, before they reached the climax. Arthur came first, letting out strangled cry and arching his back again. For a moment, his whole world consisted bursts of colour in his sight, the electricity and heat coursing through his body in violent waves, and the desperate groaning of his name against his shoulder as Eames reached an equally dizzying orgasm. After that, it was nothing but panting and kissing and half-formed words. Eames was nuzzling their cheeks together as he pulled out, and that contact didn't break until they were both settled comfortably on the mattress. The idea of the need to clean up never crossed Arthur's mind; every ounce of him was drawn to Eames. Gravity no longer existed to him. It was only Eames holding him to earth.

He could definitely not remember ever kissing after sex. But they did this time, and it was every bit as thrilling as the minutes before. Arthur would not have remembered he had a headache if one were to tell him. All he felt was pure bliss and warmth, as Eames lazily but playfully wrestled him into the covers to cuddle. They didn't even have the heart to pretend they didn't enjoy such a pointless, time-consuming thing. They were too exhausted to move even if they wanted to. Eames was kissing up and down his neck and shoulder before long, and Arthur felt himself being lulled to sleep.

The shrill blaring of the bedside alarm pierced its way into Arthur's skull, making him jump and wince at the same time. He felt Eames shift, reach over and slam the blasted clock with his fist, either turning it off or destroying it. Either way, Arthur was happy. He resumed claiming the forger's body as his pillow, blanket and heat source.

"You don't have class until noon." he murmured, smiling against the skin and closing his eyes.

"And you have one at eight. In fifteen minutes." Eames pointed out with a lazy grin as he nuzzled his face into Arthur's hair. The point man snorted lightly and answered by tightening his grip around Eames' waist. He was perfectly content to stay here until he absolutely had to leave. Until his welcome was worn right out. Until Eames shoved him out the door.

It was a nice thought, lingering here for eternity. But, as he heard an insistent ringing from the phone in his coat in the living room, Arthur deflated. It wasn't stopping. Someone was worried about him.


End file.
